


Return to Sender

by absolutelyCancerous (cal1brations)



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M, Mother-Daughter Relationship, it's painful, poor Maka ugh poor baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cal1brations/pseuds/absolutelyCancerous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only way he can think to describe Maka on Mother’s Day is “gone”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return to Sender

The only way he can think to describe Maka on Mother’s Day is “gone”. Which, isn’t really a proper adjective, but it’s the only thing that describes what he sees, from the moment he first wakes up.

She’s not cuddled next to him in bed, she’s nowhere to be found in the sheets, actually—he only sees his first glimpse of her when he gets up to make coffee for himself and a mug of chamomile tea for her. She looks tired, sitting with her laptop, curled into one little corner of the sofa, postcards and letters scattered on the coffee table and next to her on the couch; it reminds him a little of one of those detective shows, like CSI, and he smiles blankly as he brings her the cup of tea.

They’re letters from her mother, postcards and scribbled notes on random pieces of paper, little notes of her travels and how much she loves her baby. Soul has gotten a little accustomed to this little ritual that occurs for a good portion of the day, like it does every year, and every year it makes him a little sadder to watch his girlfriend flounder amongst written words and a longing reality.

He doesn’t interrupt her, just leans over to kiss the top of her head before going back to tend to his own coffee, making sure to take it back to his room to keep out of Maka’s way.

.

By early afternoon, Maka is writing.

She’s sitting at the kitchen table, furiously scribbling out words into a notebook with a pen. She doesn’t notice when Soul shuffles back out to check on her, nor does she even really speak to him, just gives him a smile that isn’t real (it doesn’t reach her eyes) and mumbles a little “hey” to him before she’s putting her head back down and writing once again.

Soul is used to this ritual as well. Sometimes it takes her minutes, sometimes it takes her hours, but she really doesn’t talk to him until the evening, so, again, he does his dishes and gives her shoulder a little squeeze in passing as he makes his way to the bathroom to hop in the shower.

.

By late afternoon, she’s moping. Not lazing, not relaxing, but  _moping_ , like she normally does this one time a year he can’t do much about. She sits on the couch like a curled up little thing, knees brought up to her chin and hands curled around her feet. Her face presses a little into her knees as she stares at the parlor walls quietly. It doesn’t even seem like she’s  _thinking_ , that’s how unmoving and silent she is.

Now’s the time he can go to her side, offer her hugs and kisses and someone to listen to her vent her frustrations, and it takes a minute for her to relax when he sits beside her, but soon enough she’s crawling into his lap and tucking her face into his neck like she normally does—he’s a little honored she doesn’t mind confiding in him anymore.

“Her last postcard was from Dubai,” Maka murmurs into his neck, “but that was from almost ten months ago.”

“I’m sure she’s still there.”

She pulls away to look at him, her little nose scrunched up in confusion; she’s so cute. “How?”

“She doesn’t seem to send you things until she’s leaving—or when she’s just got to somewhere new. If that’s the last one, I’m sure it’s fine.”

He knows this because he’s looked at the dates on cards. He also knows that they’re each from new places, never two from the same country (at least, not in succession).  Her mother makes him angry, makes him grit his teeth and wiggle his toes in silent anger, because who the hell is she to make her daughter like this? Scared to mail a stupid letter, in fear her mother might never get to hear of her recent successes and struggles and thoughts? He doesn’t think that’s what a mother is,  _knows_  that isn’t what a mother should do to a child, but Soul’s positive Maka might lose absolutely all of her shit if he ever spoke ill of the woman, so he doesn’t. Not to say he _lies_  about liking her, cool guys don’t lie, but he’s indifferent towards the woman, as far as Maka can see, and that’s what matters.

Nonetheless, it’s a little gut-churning to see Maka so nervous about something so trivial. It’s Mother’s Day, not the night before an exam. But here she is, sitting in his lap, curling up against him with arms around his neck and her face in his shoulder, shaking a little bit because worry has possessed her movements; it’s  _sad_.

“She’ll reply.”

Maka nods, nervously. “I hope so. She didn’t, last year.”

He rubs her back soothingly, hopes it provides her a little bit of comfort.

Instead, Maka seeks comfort in his words. She keeps her head on his shoulder as she speaks to him once again. “Did you send your mom anything?”

“Have I  _ever_?”

She hums a little laugh, which is good, but to his chagrin, she continues the conversation.

“Why?”

He scrubs at his face with a hand. Maka barely knows he has a family that isn’t her, has only heard him mumble semblances of statements about himself being the youngest of two sons; it’s not that he doesn’t like talking to her, but he doesn’t like to remember the reasons that made up the list of his running away, and he especially doesn’t like to dwell on the past.

But, he can humor her, if it makes her feel any better about her own mother.

“I doubt it’d really mean anything—I think it’d be to her like getting “thank you” cards after the holidays are to most people.”

Maka frowns. “Is she really that bad?”

“Well—no, she’s… she’s not  _bad_ ,” he grimaces, because he really doesn’t know how to describe his mother. She’s a vain woman, one obsessed with her looks and class and social standing, all the things Soul never cared about and all the things she grew upset with him for. He starts up again, “I remember lots of nice stuff with her and my brother.”

Maka moves a little in his lap, keeps her head on his shoulder casually. “Like what?”

Siiigh. “She used to take us out for ice cream after recitals.” He remembers specifically that his mother would only eat a small cup of French vanilla with strawberry drizzle and a cherry on top—that’s why he likes artificial strawberry so much, from her letting him have a bite every time.

Maka smiles, plays with his hair a little, stays quiet as she waits for him to reminisce some more, because she doesn’t know much about him, and it’s cute to imagine him as a small, four-foot-something little boy.

“And?”

“Mm, she used to tuck me in, too.” He leaves out that she’d smother him in perfume-rich kisses and tickle his sides until he’d dive under the covers, where she’d smooth back his bangs and plant a smooch on his forehead and both of his eyes before wishing him goodnight and leaving him to sleep.

Maka laughs, “I bet you were just  _too cute_ , huh?”

Soul grumbles, turns away so Maka can’t tease him for his blushing face. But, Maka just kisses his ear instead, thanks him, then settles against him once again, smiling and comfortable. He feels accomplished, and rubs her back until she decides it’s time for dinner.

.

They’re cuddled together in bed, with Maka’s nice shaven legs tangled with his and her back to his front as she speaks quietly, holding his hand around her midsection to keep him embracing her.

“Mama used to brush my hair before bed,” she mumbles, “because I’d have creases from wearing it up in pigtails all day. So she’d brush it out for me while I read before going to bed.”

Soul kisses the back of her neck, seeing as he can’t kiss anywhere else really, and cuddles against her a little bit more. “That’s sweet.”

“She used to read books with me when Papa wasn’t home to.”

He cringes—there are only a handful of reasons her father wouldn’t be home, and there’s realistically one that he wouldn’t be home for his baby girl, and it’s a very disgusting one.

“She used to let me have more ice cream than I wanted after dinner so she and Papa could talk.”

Soul doesn’t say anything. Feels Maka tremble, and holds her fast against him when she tries to scoot away from him. She hits at his hands, kicks her legs and eventually just ends up crying, face red and hair mussed as she yells into her hands; it’s sad how much she loves her mother, and it’s  _heartbreaking_  how much love Maka puts into their relationship, a relationship that her mother seems to have given up on once she packed up and left her daughter behind with the man she was pitted against from then on. Soul knows what it’s like to be defiant, but doesn’t know what it’s like to be pitted against a parent—the effects of such make him sick.

He tries to run his fingers through her hair, but she presses his hand away.

“It’s different when you do it.”

“It  _should_  be.” He growls, not because he’s angry, but because this is information she needs to get through her thick skull. “I’m me, not her.”

Maka only looks over her shoulder at him, eyes glassy, even in the dark of the room.

“Do you hate her?”

“She’s your mom.”

“She’s a nice lady, really—“

He’s had enough. He’s had  **years**  of this bullshit, of her building up this fairy-tale mother that could  _never_  exist in a real world. This woman she can’t even remember from several years ago, because she has never even  **heard** this woman’s voice during the course of their partnership, nonetheless seen what a monster this woman is.

But he  _can’t tell her these things_ , because he can’t shatter this reality she’s built for herself; a place where her mother isn’t as ordinary and scum-filled like every other human that thrives, survives.

“I know, I’ve heard,” Soul tells her instead, lets his lips brush against her as he struggles to keep neutral ground, to keep from exploding about the things she could handle a little less off, like her mother’s avoidance bullshit.

Maka thanks him, and she falls asleep cuddled close to him. Sleep, however, does not find Soul, as his stomach churns in anger.

.

Maka’s letter gets to a mailbox.

Their mailbox. Downstairs. With the rest of the apartment building’s mail. Stamped with a large, red “RETURN TO SENDER” on the top right of the envelope, a little over the stamp.

Like last year, Soul does not bring the letter up to her—he can’t imagine how fucking wrecked she would be, how heartbroken and miserable because  _she made a mistake_ and now she might not  _ever_  get to speak to her mother again. Instead, he stuffs the contents into his coat pocket, shreds the envelope, and tosses it in the two dumpsters outside, down the alley next to the apartment building, splitting the evidence equally, just to be safe.

When Maka asks if there’s any mail for her, he shrugs, hands her the newest volume of a magazine she’s subscribed to, mentioning that her letter is probably safe and she shouldn’t worry.

He’s not lying—it can’t be lying if it’s to protect her (from her own mother, how fucked up is  _that_?).

And, being a weapon, his job is  _always_  to protect.


End file.
